


Dream Job

by Mako_Octo



Series: Dream Job [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Dominant and Submissive, Dream Job, M/M, Original work - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2020-09-28 18:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mako_Octo/pseuds/Mako_Octo
Summary: Introduction to Michael Dennis, a 24 year old man who is an assistant to one of the most powerful men in the country. His attraction his boss is what truly makes his job, a dream job.





	Dream Job

**Author's Note:**

> Original work. I didn't use any other fiction to help write these stories. Daniel Birch is heavily based on a real person in my life. He (Birch) is 32 years old and easily the wealthiest man in their city. I didn't name an exact location. In my mind, their city is a blend of London and Tokyo. Leaving out specifics for the location allows readers to insert their own cities.

I’m Michael Dennis. It was currently 6am. I was on the train, headed to the largest office building in the center of the city. In my hands were two to-go coffees, a day planner, and my phone, which with this job, was always out. I had a backpack strapped to me filled with documents and journals, all necessary for work, mainly Mr. B’s. 

I glanced up to my reflection inside the crowded train. I was nothing special. For a guy, I wasn’t tall, only 160 cm. My shaggy red hair twisted around my ears. My body barely had any muscle or hair; I looked like I had never gone through puberty. I pushed up my thinly framed glasses higher up on my nose. They hid the fact that my eyes were blue, the only feature of mine that I was proud of. The only quality of my mother I inherited. 

_ Bing. _ A message from my boss flashed across my phone.

“M, I will be there at 7. Be there before me with coffee. -B.” I scoffed at the message. I already had his coffee, as I had every morning for the past four months. I never had the nerve to tell him, so he reminded me every morning. He probably thought I was a moron. I replied with a quick “yes sir.”

I’ve been working for Mr. Birch for six months now. He was the head of marketing of a multi-million dollar advertisement company. Working with him at the proximity that I was able to was an opportunity that thousands of others applied for every day. Because of that, I did anything and everything for Mr. B. If he texted me at 3 am and told me to bring him coffee from a shop across the state, and to meet him at the office with by 4 o’clock, I’d get it done, less he replaced me.

Now,  _ most  _ of what he has required of me has been reasonable. He did often ask me to stay late, or to run some crazy errands for him. There was a time that he was going on a weekend trip and I had to help out. I was excited because I was expecting to be off for the next three days in his absence. He hadn’t made a single inclination that he needed me for anything other than making sure his flight was taken care of. I even drove him to the airport myself. As he was exiting my rental car was when he handed me a list. It was a list of things he expected me to take care of while he was away. Things like take a hamper from his house to the dry cleaner, get his car’s oil changed, fucking take care of his cat! 

And you know what? I did it all, without complaining to him. And if he does it again tomorrow, I’ll do it then too. You don’t get it. This is a job that took  _ months  _ of interviews! Tons of essays to write, and daily coffee visits, just to get my resume on Mr. B’s desk. The day I got the call to meet with him, I fainted. Seriously, the call ended, and then I was on the floor. My roommate, Barry found me an hour later. 

I can’t lose this job. Working for Mr. B was like being paid to attend a tour of my future. If I had to do some grunt work to stay there, I was more than willing to do that. 

I guess, the worst thing was Mr. B wasn’t the nicest man. He belittled me often, telling me how I couldn't do something right, or how something he was working on was  _ over my head _ . I didn’t like it, but it was not just me. He was like that with everyone. Well, everyone beneath him. He earned that right: with his job, his intelligence, his money. He was one of the most powerful men in the world because of it. What he did was important, while he could hire anyone to do what I did. I had more respect for that man than anyone else.

Reaching my stop, I bustled off the train, holding the coffees above my head to avoid spilling them. I glanced my at watch, 6:30 am. It took me 15 minutes to walk from the station to the office. And from there, another five to get from the ground floor to Mr. B’s office. I should be there in time. 

Hopping up the station stairs, I weaved in and out of the crowd. Being small had its quirks. At the top of the stairs, I turned quickly to round the corner.

Suddenly, as if my backpack stopped moving in the air, I was jerked back with a force that spilled boiling coffee down the front of my shirt. I fell to the ground painfully, my backpack somehow staying in the air, pulling off my arms. 

“Ow!” I cried, grabbing my shirt and head. I looked up to the large stranger who had grabbed my bag, standing over me as if waiting for a fight. “P-please, I need that.” I reached up slowly, unsure of what the stranger would do. 

Bad choice. 

A shoe slammed into my cheek. My head whipped around, and for a moment, I swear I saw stars. By the time I sat up, my jaw was on fire, I tasted iron, the stranger was gone, and so was my bag. I rubbed my chin, it didn’t feel like it was broken. I spat blood onto the concrete, and looked down at my soiled shirt. Brown coffee spread from my collar down to my pants, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I found coffee on my underwear waistband later. 

“Great, just great.” I mumbled to myself. I didn’t have a spare shirt at my desk. I had forgotten to replace it after the last time I spilled something. I looked behind me in the direction that the mugger ran. I had a lot of meeting notes in there. Granted, most were printed from my computer at work, but I had handwritten notes in the margins. At least I had my wallet in my jacket pocket. I looked down to the spilled coffee cup next to me, and the second one standing upright unharmed. 

“Hoooow?” I asked the air, feeling a sense of satisfaction.

Well, I lost my coffee, but I still had one for Mr. B. I started taking my coffee the same as his after losing a few over the months, it became imperative. I looked down at my watch again. Mr. B was going to be in the office in twenty minutes!

Collecting myself, I grabbed my planner, the remaining coffee, and my phone. I began running as fast as I could. My jaw hurt more from panting and the cool morning air stung my chest. The building was in sight, I ran faster, ignoring the pain of the hot coffee that spurted over my hand from the drink hole in the lid.

When I reached the stairs of the office building, I took two at a time, bursting through the front doors with my shoulder. I stared at the huge group of people waiting outside the elevators, there was no way I was making the next ride up. I changed directions to the stairs. Mr. B’s office was on the eighty-eighth floor. I gritted my teeth and hastily climbed. 

I pushed open the eighty-eighth floor door slowly. Well, pushed was too positive, fell against with exhaustion was more accurate. I couldn’t feel my legs as I crawled into the office, glancing up at the clock on the wall. 6:57 am. With relief, I pressed my cheek against the carpeted floor. 

“Need a pillow?” A deep voice asked. Scrambling to my feet, I stood up straight. Standing at the door was my boss, Mr. Daniel Birch. He loomed over me, standing at 188 cm. He sported a perfectly trimmed mustache and petite goatee combo. He had long black hair which normally would have been seen as unprofessional, but was tied tightly back in a low ponytail. It made him look dignified, refined, beautiful. 

I held out the coffee to him, forgetting for a moment the state of my clothes. Mr. B stared at the cup, taking it from my hand with his middle finger and thumb, clearly avoiding the drops on the outside. His glance then ran over me.

“Well, you were here before me with coffee, so I guess I can’t complain.” He teased, studying my outfit. My eyes ran over his pristine suit and tie, pressed to perfection. His thick shoulders filled out his jacket, making him look like a gladiator in a suit. Then my eyes fell to my own attire. 

“Um, I can explain. You see, I-” 

“Tripped and spilled your coffee on the way in?” He asked mockingly. Annoyed, I sighed. Would he even care if I told him? I decided to let it go and shrugged, turning away to my own desk in the corner. Mr. B’s hand was suddenly holding my chin, causing me to gasp from the reminder of pain.

“Michael, you’re bleeding.” He said, examining my face. I was standing on the balls of my feet as he lifted my face.

“I was mugged.” I whispered, ashamed that as a man I couldn’t take care of myself. Mr. B reached into his jacket, revealing a white handkerchief. Lightly, he dabbed it against my lip, turning the fabric red with my blood. 

“What exactly did they do?” He scrutinized my face with a medical examiner’s precision. I thought back to being pulled by my bag like a school boy. Flustered, I tried to look away. His grip was gentle, yet firm and held me there.

“They kicked me in the face while I was on the ground.” I mumbled, my face getting hot from embarrassment. I slowly looked back up to Mr. B, his eyes relaxed. Feeling his thumb graze my chin, I trembled, hoping he didn’t notice. For a moment it seemed like he leaned down toward me. I gasped.

Moving away, Mr. B asked me, “they take your money?” He was still holding my face. I shook my head, as best as I could. 

“Just the meeting notes.” I replied. He was looking over me as if he was trying to tell if I was lying. His eyes made me feel naked, stripped of everything. His skin was rough, yet soft, the kind of skin that only one who worked for everything they had, could have. Releasing me, Mr. B. walked to his section of the office. He took off his jacket, revealing a cascade of muscles that were visible even under his long sleeved shirt. Where did this guy find the time to work out? 

He went to his closet, and pulled out a smaller, white shirt, its collar and fabric neatly pressed. He turned to me and held it out.

“Wear this. Once you’ve changed, go get new copies of my notes. That meeting starts in 30 minutes.” Mr. B commanded, his tone full of authority, yet still comforting. I bowed thankfully and took the hanger from him.

“Yes. Thank you sir!” I bowed again, then rushed to the bathroom to clean up.

My boss was a highly respected man. Anyone with my job would try to move heaven and earth in order to hold this position. But over the past few months, I’ve come to the realization that it was more than that for me. I did not just respect Mr. B for his job and title, I was in love with him, as a man. And I strove to stay his assistant purely because being with him, was my dream job.


End file.
